


So Hot You're Hurting My Feelings

by 80sjuicebox



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: First Kiss, Frottage, M/M, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23672302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/80sjuicebox/pseuds/80sjuicebox
Summary: Fever-Tree Championships 2019 feat. Andy Murray's stupid little crush.
Relationships: Feliciano López/Andy Murray
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	So Hot You're Hurting My Feelings

Being an athlete and all, it usually took at least three sets to catch him breathless, but _god_ , this was barely round one. 

“Wait--wait. Oh fu--” 

Seemingly unaware of Andy’s impending heart attack, the hand between his legs doesn’t halt its punishment. Fogginess clouded the edges of his vision, but the caramel skin against him was unmistakeable. The friction was just lingering on the edge of being not enough, fist closed loosely in a way that drove Andy insane and shamefully bucking against the man against him. 

“Feli. Can you just—” 

The cool air hits the back of his throat sharply as he gasps at a particularly unforgiving tug, and he figures his resistance was futile— not that he could’ve mustered up much against Feli anyway. This was certainly not a complaint. He was never reticent in mentioning Feli’s attractiveness, most of his followers involuntary witnesses of their tasteful jabs at each other in the comments section, admittedly in a primary-school-kid-tugging-on-his-crush’s-pigtails kind of way. At least that was the case for Andy.

In a frustrated haze, he reaches down and attempts to wrap his hand over Feli’s, who rudely grabs it with his free hand and presses it onto his bare chest instead. Andy was just a man after all, who could blame him for deciding that, fine, and seizing the opportunity to run his hands along the stretch of solid muscle. This wasn’t an unfamiliar view, though not familiar in the way Andy wished it were. Feli would come up, more often than not shirtless, in the locker rooms before a match and no matter how the conversation starts, it would end with a variant of _Vamos, Andy. You’ll do great._ Andy wished he would take him right there against the lockers.

Staying afloat amidst the pleasure proved to be a challenge; darkness pooled into the edges of his consciousness. If this were how sailors felt falling victim to sirens, Andy figured the ocean looked pretty good.

When he opens his eyes again, the recognisable silhouettes of his bedroom come into view.

_What the fuck._

The weight of the darkness doesn’t help the burning under his skin. Despite the parchedness of his throat, the unpleasant stickiness in his underwear was difficult to ignore. He was still hard, but the horror of just having had a wet dream about his current doubles partner and long-term man crush was formidable.

Any ounce of sleep was off his mind now. He picks up his phone from the nightstand——4.26am——and taps into Instagram. The Fever Tree Championships account constituted much of his mentions lately, and he was due his first practice session with Feli in two days. Scrolling through the anticipation for grass season and Wimbledon, spilt over excitement from Rafa’s 12th Roland Garros win…Andy pauses. Staring back at him with brilliant cerulean eyes and exquisitely contoured cheekbones was no other than Feli. The Gio journal logo sat on the upper left corner of the photograph. Andy drew a deep breath; this was a terrible time for him to be looking this good. Along with the rush of arousal that returned with a vengeance, Andy almost felt…sad? He swipes to the second picture and the same wave of fondness washes over him, crashing dully against his heart. So that’s why they called them heartthrobs. 

*

Looking is dangerous. He was saying something about positioning, Andy thinks, rolled ‘R’s atypical of the English language slipping through those lips and crawling right into Andy’s chest. ‘Hot’ would’ve never been his choice of adjective to describe anything in England until, well, now. The dream stuck around the back of his mind, and Andy hadn’t realised how much he missed the tour (and Feli). Was he still talking? Averting his gaze took too much effort. Having to watch Feli train was distracting enough, his dampening shirt hiding no secrets as the day went on. It takes a second for Andy to register the expectant blue eyes fixed on him and he blinks, responding with what he wished to be an appropriate “Yeah, um. Sure.” He was just tired, surely. 

The Spaniard was quiet for a moment, giving Andy the subtle once-over before turning back with a small nod, masking the upturn of his lips.

Summer blessed them with a few more hours of the measly London sun before the chill of the wind shepherded them back indoors. Andy hadn’t been completely tuned in the whole day; merely contemplating or on the verge a crisis, he wasn’t sure. He grabs his jacket off the bench after a shower and pulls it on, hankering for his bed. A soft huff of laughter snaps him out of his thoughts, and he looks curiously to Feli. “What?”

All Andy got in response was a head shake and undeniable fondness creasing the corners of Feli’s eyes. 

*

_Um._

This wasn’t his jacket.

A skull logo stared back at him in the mirror as he tried to come up with someone to blame. Feli, himself, God, anyone. His actual jacket sat folded neatly in his unzipped bag, comedic if not for Andy’s miserable mess of emotions. Everytime he felt like he’d almost finished laying his _very_ platonic emotions on a canvas in a way that made sense, something comes along like wet paint spilt on it. Thumb hovering over the messenger app, he fails to fight the shame rising within him and decides against texting Feli. The jacket felt cosier than anything else he’s ever worn, and he knew deep down that it had nothing to do with the fabric. Unwillingly, it’s thrown in the wash that night and dried to be returned the next day. 

“I, uh, took your jacket by accident yesterday. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I wanted to see how long it’d take for you to notice.” Feli snickers, securing his white headband with a logo Andy was all too familiar with. A playful pat lands on his side. “You looked good in it. You should keep it. ”

Despite the full body shiver those words almost gave Andy, he stubbornly tosses the jacket back at Feli.

“Use less cologne next time.” 

*

Andy serves for the championship point. The crowd is dead silent. The opponent’s return flies past him. Out.

They let out a triumphant shout and collide in a crushing hug. The crowd goes wild. Feli wishes he could see Andy’s face, but the slight tremor against his arms told him enough. 

They go to dinner that night, an upscale Spanish restaurant that’s a favourite of, but not limited to, the Spanish players. Andy’s team had politely excused themselves from the celebration, leaving Andy with Feli, his team, and the gnawing regret of not having picked up any Spanish in the time he lived in Spain. The owner greets them at the door, a flood of _Ah bienvenidos! Welcome, welcome_ as he directs them to a warmly lit table. Their entrance spikes the energy in the room, the buzz of victory still alive in Andy’s bones. He felt just a little out of place, the supposed host feeling like a foreigner in his own country. 

“Let’s get some drinks to start. Andy, you ok with red wine?” 

He preferred beer or simply water, truthfully. Something about being wine drunk made him a little more poignant and pliable than necessary, not to mention the hangover; but when you’re at dinner with a wine aficionado, it would be foolish not to sample whatever it was that lived up to his standards.

With Andy’s affirmation, the owner: Abel, Andy’s learnt, patiently lists the selection of reds tonight. Once he leaves with the drink orders, everyone’s attention turns to the concise menu. After some ridiculously tough decision making, they come to an agreement on a few entrees and sharing a Paella as the main course. Having settled the tedious task of ordering and now left to their own devices, Feli eyes Andy who’s seated beside him. 

“Not bad for a 40-year-old, eh?” 

It earns a snort from Andy as the table erupts with laughter.

“Honestly, I was shitting myself during your third set tiebreak.”

“What, you don’t believe I can win?” 

“You did play two matches in a day. Maybe your knees were giving out, I don’t know.” He says drily. 

The drinks arrive then, to Feli’s delight. Now that everyone has a glass of wine in hand, obligatory questions about his hip start coming up, which he answers with his best effort to sound interested at all. At this point he feels like he’s constantly regurgitating the same responses from the last hundredth times he was questioned by people who frankly couldn’t care less. Of course, he didn’t expect everyone to care about him, that was just disgracefully narcissistic. It wasn’t that he disliked Feli’s team either, in fact he found them all to be amiable people, but the superficiality of it all drained him.

“Come on, he’s probably had too many questions about that. The interviewers really have nothing else to talk about huh?”

_Feli watches his interviews?_

The thought was tucked hastily into the back of his mind. Grateful for the intervention, Andy takes a sip from his glass, tart brightness coating his tongue and leaving the mildest prickling sensation at the back of his throat. He wasn’t going to pretend he could taste ‘a hint of vanilla’ or anything like that, but it was definitely tasty; even for someone who rarely touches wine anymore.

“You like it? If you want something else--” 

“No, I like it. It’s really nice. Very bright.”

Seemingly satisfied with his reaction, Feli relaxes in his chair, arm coming up to rest on the back of Andy’s seat. His enveloping presence is paralysing for a split second.

“Contador Tempranillo from Spain. Not cheap.” 

“So that’s where all the prize money goes.”

Andy watches as the gentle orange light finds its way into the ridges of Feli’s smile. Dark curls behind the curve of his ear seemed softer, edges golden. Andy cracks too, cheeks a little too sore to be solely acknowledging the joke. Intoxication seemed to come by without any wine. They’re interrupted by the arrival of their entrées, Andy turning away first to watch the elegantly plated tapas be placed on the table. Feli looks away when the waiter leaves.

“I’m starving, this looks amazing.” Andy comments, the spicy aroma doing nothing to pacify his rumbling stomach.

The rest chimes in with agreement, the clank of cutlery a welcome noise. In the time it took for Andy to pore over the options, carefully constructed bites of the chorizo and tuna dishes were pushed onto his plate. He glances down at it and at Feli, who is busy scooping up a stuffed olive and moving it to Andy’s plate. “You have to try this.” Feli prompts, keeping his eyes down on the food as if nervous to meet his gaze.

Andy feels spoilt with attention. It was only slightly embarrassing with everyone watching. “Don’t worry about me, I’m just trying to decide. If you don’t start eating now I can’t guarantee I’ll leave you anything.” He warns. That’s not true. He has an unexplained want to refill his wine, feed him, watch him drink, until both of their laughter and contentment melded together.

The food was heavenly. Andy watched as Feli broke into a shrimp, skin tensing over his knuckles as he pulled off the head, and fingers working to remove the shell. His gaze skims over the veins on the back of his hand. He closes his own fist, in fear of the impulse to reach out and touch him. The rest of the meal was occupied by scrumptious dishes and idle chatter, Abel kind enough to throw in a free dessert to congratulate them for their win. Andy offers to pay, a move met with much objection from the table. It takes some aggressive scuffling and a few firm ‘No’s before Feli manages to shove Andy back in his seat, a persistent stream of Spanish directed at Abel the whole time. Wimbledon was commencing in less than a week, and Feli and his team planned to stay till then. Andy was to play doubles as well, although not with Feli as he understandably wanted to focus on his singles performance. 

“When you win next time, ok?” Feli says as he pockets his credit card. Andy didn’t want to wait. 

Alcohol running through their blood, they step out onto the streets where they’re met with the rumble of traffic as the wind licks up their limbs. Andy had been mourning this moment of departure and official end of their doubles partnership the moment he met Feli, but despite all the mental preparation it didn’t make him hurt less. Ready to say goodbye, Andy does his best to keep his expression impassive. He doesn’t expect the words that leave Feli’s mouth next.

“Let’s go to the hotel together. I brought you something.” Feli nudges Andy lightly, and Andy tries to not seem too relieved.

“Shit, if you told me I would’ve gotten you something too.”

“It’s okay! Don’t worry,” Feli reassures quickly, waving it off. “The doubles title is enough.”

That breaks Andy’s usually stony countenance once more. 

They squeeze into a cab and head for the hotel which is a short drive away. Andy can feel the body heat radiating off Feli beside him, a distance he would never dare establish himself off-court if not for the tiny space in the cab. Their knees knock against each other’s and they mostly stay silent, Andy making no effort to move when Feli leans into him. Every touch seemed magnified once he became aware of them.

They hop off the cab and step into the hotel, exchanging goodbyes with Feli’s team when they part ways to return to their rooms. Andy follows Feli into his, the muted stillness of the room doing nothing to help Andy’s racing heart. He figured he’ll just grab his gift and leave Feli to rest. The door clicks behind him.

“You can sit anywhere. You want a drink?” Feli motions to the room. 

“I’m alright, thanks.” 

“You’re playing with the French player right? Pierre-Hugues.”

“Yeah.” Andy half heartedly surveys the room.

“I thought he always played with Nicolas Mahut.”

“I thought so too. I think he only wanted to play singles until…well, I needed a partner.” 

Feli sucks in air through his teeth, realisation dawning on him. “Somebody’s not gonna be happy. Anyway,” he brushes past Andy to get to the desk and picks up a tall bag stood on it. The bag stretches over a few regular sharp corners of a box when lifted.

“Two bottles in here,” Feli hands it to Andy. “One for you and one for your mother, maybe.” He adds with a chuckle. 

Judy loved Feli. _Deliciano,_ she had called him, to Andy’s mortification. _Mom. He’s my friend._ Judy Murray was tenacious in a lot of ways. _What? Don’t act like you haven’t got a thing for him too._ Her teasing never quite stopped, and Andy was never quite able to defend himself properly. He found himself in the shoes of an embarrassed 15-year-old boy once again. 

“She couldn’t stop talking about how good you looked in white.”

Feli laughs, bright and deep. “Say hi to her for me.” 

“Maybe I should just give you her number.” Andy can’t stop himself from smiling. Feli hits him on the arm, grinning in the way that made his nose scrunch and Andy’s stomach fill with butterflies.

“It’s Rioja wine. Tell me if you like it, I’ll bring more.” 

“Thank you.”

They’re quiet for a moment, the words settling between them. Feli lifts his arms and Andy naturally returns the embrace after setting the wine on the ground. They don’t let go.

“You played amazing today.” 

“You too. Tennis misses you.” _I miss you._ Feli’s voice was muffled by his shoulder.

Andy swallows. Feli was so warm against him, chest flush against his. Was that his or Feli’s heart that was beating so fast? “I…missed you too.” Every nerve in Andy’s body was screaming for him to dissolve into the ground. Andy tears himself away just enough to see Feli’s face, arms still resting on his shoulders. The air felt electric. 

“Can I kiss you?” Andy’s voice almost breaks. He didn’t get any time to grimace over it before a set of full lips are carefully pressed to his. He shuts his eyes, their bodies pressed impossibly close and angles his head slightly. Feli parts his lips for a quick breath, something Andy took advantage of immediately. He still tasted of Tempranillo, but sweeter than anything you could ever find in a vineyard. Andy lands on the pristine bed with a push, Feli chasing his lips as he crawls on top of Andy, knees on either side of his body. They finally pull away when Andy’s lips are bitten and numb, and both make the unsurprising discovery that their pants were way too tight for comfort. 

“I dreamt of you. Before this.”

“Yeah?”

“Like. A wet dream.” 

“Oh. Like this?”

“Not nearly as good.”

Feli palms Andy through the fabric of his joggers and his reaction was instantaneous, pushing into Feli’s hand with a groan. He pulls it away, to Andy’s disappointment, and grinds his hips against Andy’s experimentally, the act drawing a heavy sigh from them both. Andy reaches out to paw at Feli’s waistband, pulling down roughly as soon as he manages to hook his fingers through. The sudden yank causes Feli to flinch, Andy mumbling an apology as he strokes Feli to full hardness. Feli straightens himself to rip off his shirt and push his pants lower down his thighs, and proceeds to work on shedding the layers off Andy. His sweater and shirt are pulled off over his head, and his joggers and underwear down to the floor. 

The manoeuvring had both of them trying to catch their breath, and Feli freezes when Andy is bare underneath him. It doesn’t take long for Andy to be disquieted by the lack of motion, managing a breathy “What’s wrong?”.

Feli tilts his head a little, striking eyes gently drinking in the sight of Andy: red, aroused, and brows furrowed in a way that was often mistaken as foul mood. Well, it was, sometimes, but it didn’t deter Feli in the slightest. A dark scar sat on the side of Andy’s hip. The blessed way he was permitted to see him like this, open and vulnerable. If this isn’t love, he may never find out what is. 

“Have you tried looking not so pissed off in bed? Maybe that’s why you don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh fuck off.” 

Andy reflexively buries his face in his hands as Feli laughs and proceeds to pry his hands off by the wrist, pressing another kiss to Andy’s mouth. “I’m joking, you’re so handsome.” 

“I don’t care anymore, can you just fucking make me come.” There’s no real venom in Andy’s words, but he might just combust if this drags on any longer.

Feli mutters a few ‘okay’s with the same enthusiasm as someone who’s asked to do a house chore before taking Andy’s length in hand and stroking it. There was no hesitation or lack of technique on Feli’s part, precome being coaxed out of Andy at an alarming rate. 

“Okay, you have to slow the fuck down.” 

Feli slows the motion of his fist and clamps his thumb and index finger around the base of Andy’s dick, drawing a whine from him. “I barely even started, cariño.” He mumbles, amused, and lowers himself to suck a bruise onto Andy’s collarbone, peppering the rest of his neck and chest with light kisses. He rolls off Andy to lie on his side, Andy doing the same unprompted, so they were face to face. They don’t resist the urge to capture each other’s lips again while Feli line up their dicks. Closing his fist as best as he can around both of them, he indulges in a few rolls of his hips, small movements that rubbed against Andy and made them both gasp. Andy thrusts into Feli’s hand, slick with precome, spurring Feli to do the same and leaving them in a desperate state of desire. The wet pants against Andy’s cheek drives him to crack open a teary eye to find Feli, glasses abandoned, eyelids blissfully closed and lashes dark and trembling. 

It doesn’t take long for them to come, rugged breaths and frantic strokes. Feli finds that Andy does kind of sound like the noises he makes on court, an amusing but devastating fact that could land him in much trouble in the future. Sticky streaks settle on their abdomens and the sheets, something that neither of them had the energy to care. 

“At least we know your hip works.” Feli jokes, catching his breath. Andy can only grunt in response, the heaving of his chest gradually steadying. 

Miraculously, Feli musters up enough power to get up, kicking off his pants completely. “I need a shower. Join me?” He suggests nonchalantly. Andy squints at him, crawling off the bed after a dramatic struggle.

To put it simply, it was a 40 minute shower that may have involved Andy’s mouth, bruised knees and Feli reconsidering purchasing senior life insurance.

Andy has never known such serenity until he’s tucked in the fluffy pillows with Feli’s head against his chest and arm thrown over his stomach. They steep in the placid breathing of each other, and Feli ghosts a finger over the scar on Andy’s hip. “Can I touch it?”

“Yeah.” 

He runs his hand over it with a feather-light touch although it had been long healed and painless. Feli’s lips left a trail of longing and comfort down Andy’s torso, finally stopping at the scar. Kisses were pressed to it meticulously, Feli’s palm splayed over his navel as he worked. A compulsion to cry squeezes the back of Andy’s throat and he has to pull Feli up into his arms, burying his face into Feli’s neck just in case he does. He rests his hand in Andy’s curls. “Sleep here tonight.”

“Okay.” 

*

Andy is awoken the next morning by the opening and shutting of the door. For a second, he’s worried that Feli had left. The soft shuffle of hotel slippers on carpet that follows tells him otherwise. Sunlight peeks in through the heavy curtains, golden rods casting an ethereal glow on the room. Selfishly, he watches Feli from the bed, relishing in the softness of his bones and the lingering scent of Feli’s shampoo. There is a faint aroma of coffee. 

“You’re awake.” 

“Mm.” 

Andy hears the clinking of porcelain. 

“Cappuccino, no sugar.” 

“Oh. Thank you.” 

“You can join us for breakfast if you want.”

“It’s okay. I’ll leave you guys to it.” 

He didn’t need Feli’s whole team knowing that he stayed the night. He sits up to sip at his coffee as the side of the bed dips with Feli’s weight. “How do you know how I like my coffee?” The question leaves Andy’s mouth before he can stop himself. Feli glances back at Andy, smiling almost sheepishly. “I remember.” He says. Andy decides that was enough of an answer for today. 

Eventually, he does get out of bed and freshens up in the bathroom, giving up on taming his disastrous hair as he steps out and gets dressed. The comfortable mundaneness makes Andy’s heart ache. “I’m gonna go then.” He pulls on his navy sweater and doesn’t forget the bottles of wine. “Okay.” There was a shadow of reluctance in Feli’s voice, but still he stands and closes the distance between them, Andy’s hand coming up to cup at his jaw instinctively as they share another kiss. 

“I’ll see you soon.” Andy promises. 

“Dinner on Friday?” 

“Sure. My mom is never gonna let me hear the end of this if she finds out.” 

Andy hears the chuckle behind him as he leaves, and he can’t smother his own smile. 

*

He’s greeted by the smug curious eyes of Judy Murray, cup of tea in hand, the moment he steps into his house. “I wanted to bring you some breakfast since you had such a big day yesterday,” she starts before Andy can start whining. “You didn’t tell me you weren’t going to be home.” She raises her brows innocuously and shifts her gaze, motioning ambiguously to her neck. “You’ve got a little…” 

Andy flees to his bedroom before she can finish the sentence. 

After thinking of a hundred ways to scold Feli for having no consideration for where he was leaving his marks, he manages to hit send on only one text.

_You do look so hot in white._

His phone chirps back with an emoji blowing a kiss at him. 

He’ll get him back soon enough.

**Author's Note:**

> when andy commented "I don't understand anything you are saying but it sounds good" on feli's ig live I felt that. quarantine has brought out the worst (gay yearning) in everyone
> 
> Title from Caroline Polachek's song "So Hot You're Hurting My Feelings"


End file.
